


devil gonna follow

by ladyzanra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Episode Tag, M/M, Mark of Cain, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyzanra/pseuds/ladyzanra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You can come back,” Castiel says. “You can come home.”</p><p>coda for 9.11</p>
            </blockquote>





	devil gonna follow

 

By the third knock, Dean’s hand is tight around the knife he was already holding beneath his pillow and his heart has pounded the sleep clean out of his veins. A second later, he’s sitting up, knows he can’t see squat through the drapes, and has picked the exact stance he's gonna answer the door with.

It’s not usual for demons to knock first, but hey, there’s fucking _teacup-fingers_ Crowley, and he’s the _king_ of them, or was. Speaking of Crowley, it’s about time he showed up with the damn Blade.  
  
Or maybe Cain’s sending him some practice. Somehow. Cain seems to get all hot and bothered by Dean’s carving skills. Maybe he’s making sure Dean keeps his blade sharp, keeps his eyes open, keeps the mark on his arm the deep red color of blood. Maybe he’s watching Dean right now. Somehow. Shucking corn and watching with those lazy, beaten, discerning eyes. (Even since the mark, Dean’s felt him nearby.)  
  
Maybe it’s Abbadon herself; in which case, Dean’s screwed.  
  
There’s nothing else it could be but demons. No one else would know where to find him or try to or want to. He’s still warded against angels. Demons might have any number of reasons for wanting him dead.  
  
He creeps toward the door, boots muffled by the motel carpet. He listens. All he can hear is his heart still thudding in his ears. And something smoother, swifter, running beneath his blood. A rage that isn't his own, whispers of murder or the murdered.   
  
That’s just the way it is now. That's what the mark does to him. He re-grips the knife and holds it over his head and takes a deep breath, drawing strength from the shadows.  
  
He opens the door and it’s Cas.  
  
He catches himself quickly. Cas sort of, flinches, which is goddamn stupid considering he can’t be killed by a demon knife.  
  
“ _Damn it, Cas,_ ” Dean barks. For a moment he wants to drives the knife into the fucking doorframe. Then he sees Sam looming cautiously over Cas’s shoulder and goes rigid. He looks back at Cas. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?” His voice is thick and kind of slow and even lower than usual and it’s a dead giveaway but he doesn’t care.  
  
He doesn’t care about the way they look at him anymore. The table behind him is littered with empty bottles and, like. Whatever. Like they hadn't been expecting it anyway.  
  
“I heard your prayer."  
  
“Yeah, uh. We thought you were in trouble,” Sam says in a confused voice, looking over Cas’s shoulder into the room.

“We came as fast as we could.” Cas looks guilty. But he doesn’t avert his eyes like he usually does. Instead there’s something desperate about the way they lock on to Dean's, something encrypted, something pleading. “But you, uh. Don’t appear to be in danger any more.”  
  
Cas is such a bad liar, it's amazing he ever gets away with anything at all.  
  
“I need to talk to you alone,” Dean says under his breath. Cas does lower his eyes, then. Dean looks past him. “Sam, why don’t you come in and make yourself at home?”

“I – Dean – ” Sam starts.  
  
“Sam _so_ fucking help me."  
  
Sam glances questioningly at Cas for a moment. Then he walks -- actually, _stomps_ \-- past them both and inside.  
  
Dean walks out and shuts the door behind him.  
  
He walks down the sidewalk past the rooms, Cas in tow, and stops only when he runs out of sidewalk, where the building ends and several old twisted trees hold creepy-ass vigil next to an orange streetlight on the corner. (The Continental is parked down here, too; all the spots inbetween had been taken.) He whips around and Cas almost walks into him.  
  
“It was a dream. You KNEW it was a dream.”  
  
“Dream or not, I still heard you.” Cas’s voice is not as deep, not as hard or harsh as usual. More human. Dean’s breath hitches. He tries to ignore it. “I always hear your prayers, no matter where they come from.”  
  
“Damn it, Cas, it wasn’t a _real_ prayer! It was –”  
  
He stops.  
  
It was fucking awful, is what it was. Dean remembers every moment of it. The endless running to get to Dream-Cas, slaughtering demons purgatory-style through an endless stream of rooms that looked... kinda like Bobby’s house? The way it had taken forever to get to Cas and then, when he had finally found him, the way Cas had turned around with eyes gone completely well-bottom black. The way his mouth had twisted and Abaddon’s voice had crawled out of it; the way she had tortured him from the inside, taunting Dean, provoking him. The way she’d left a second before he’d plunged his knife into Cas and the way Cas had died in his arms, by his hands.  
  
That’s when he had 'prayed' to Cas, so loudly and desperately. It hadn’t been for himself.  
  
Except in the simplest, most selfish of ways.  
  
It certainly hadn’t been for the real Cas to hear it, to ignore the boundaries between real and not real, life and dreams, to dive into a stupid bullshit nightmare and bring a piece of it back with him, bring its bullshittery back into question.  
  
“How much of the dream did you see?” Dean demands. “What else did you hear?”  
  
“I only heard my name. You sounded. Dean, you sounded very distressed.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Dean mutters, “It was a distressing dream.”  
  
Cas looks so small and uncertain in his trim beige trench coat, under the shadows cast by the light.  _What were you dreaming about?_  he'd asked Dean once, a long time ago, a robot simulacrum of himself. He doesn’t ask it now.  
  
Dean doesn’t know why he’d had the dream, and maybe that’s the most ‘distressing’ part of all. He has nightmares all the time; hell, most of his dreams are nightmares. So he doesn’t know why this one sticks out so bad, why it stays with him, after everything.  
  
Cas is staring at him and there is an unaccountable softness and concern mixed in with that ice-blue gaze and Dean really wishes it wasn’t there. “How are you, Dean?”  
  
Dean thinks _You lie to my brother and haul him out here to find me after I tell you both to steer clear of me because I’m a fucking walking deathtrap and also now_ literally _cursed and you think we’re just going to talk about how am I like it’s that fucking easy?_  
  
But Dean says “Not good.”  
  
 His voice is unexpectedly weak and he glances down at the pavement and brings a hand to his forehead.  
  
“You can come back,” Castiel says. “You can come home.”  
  
His voice is soft and permissive and pervasive. Understanding. Cas is always understanding, somehow, even when he can’t possibly be. Dean shouldn’t look up again. But he does. Castiel is so close to him that he feels this strange ache at the back of his throat, his chest feels raw and empty.  
  
And then something in him just breaks.  
  
He reaches out to Cas’s jaw, just below the ear, and traces his thumb over Cas’s indented cheek.  
  
Cas seems to understand this, too.  
  
“Cas. Do me a favor, okay? Don’t ever let yourself get possessed.” Dean’s voice cracks. “Don’t ever let anything that’s _not-you_ in.”  
  
“Well. I’ve.” Cas stops. His eyes slide toward Dean’s hand. “It would be impossible for me to be possessed, Dean. Nothing can possess an angel.”  
  
Dean nods on a shaky inhale, an uncertain smile. He stares at Castiel’s mouth ( _God help him_ ). “Right. Yeah, I know. Good.”  
  
"I'll be fine, Dean."  
  
Dean leans forward and kisses him. For a moment it’s a lost and uncertain thing and then they make it work and Dean’s overwhelmed at the simplicity of it. He’s been completely and utterly alone for a week and he hadn’t realized how fucking _sad_ it is to grow wild and rugged, to welcome a curse like an animal embracing its own fucking rabies. He hadn’t thought he could ever come out of it. But Cas’s mouth is soft and forgiving, forgetful. There is light and warmth here, same as there always could have been.  
  
There's _life_. Cas is so damn _human_ right now even though he’s an angel, and Dean doesn’t know why this is such a stab in the ribs even as it makes him want to draw closer and closer, to wrap himself around Cas fiercely, to engulf him, to sink into him. Dean’s other hand runs through Cas’s hair, slips down to the back of his neck, presses into the top of Cas’s spine beneath his collar.  
  
Cas pulls away sharply.  
  
“You’ve been with Crowley.” He narrows his eyes, both betrayed and worried.  
  
Dean blinks, lags behind for a moment. When he does manage to speak, his voice comes out ragged and quiet. “How would you know that, Cas?”  
  
“Demons have a very particular smell. Crowley’s is especially distinct. It’s on you. It’s more recent than the bunker.”  
  
“I haven’t been rolling around in the hay with _Crowley_ ,” Dean says in disgust.  
  
“No, but you _have_ been near him. Their scents are extremely hard to wash out. His is still in your clothes, your skin. There’s something else.” The crease in Cas’s forehead increases and he leans forward. “Something much deeper. Something.”  
  
Cas grabs Dean’s right arm and Dean breathes real fast for a moment and then. Closes his eyes as Cas pushes his sleeve up. Sees the mark.  
  
Cas is silent.  
  
“Dean,” he looks up, confused. Then he seems to come to some conclusion. He glares. “Did Crowley do this to you?”  
  
Dean’s expression hardens even as anger swells in his chest. “I did it to me.”  
  
And Dean gets some perverse satisfaction out of the fact that Cas doesn’t understand, this time.  
  
What the _fuck_ had Dean thought he’d been doing, here?  
  
Dean is horrified that Cas is standing inches away from him and Sam is in his own motel room. The orange streetlight is too bright and too dim at once. It makes him feel sick to his stomach. Claustrophobic. The knife is still on him, in his jacket. Soon Crowley will bring him the First Blade. Dean wonders if the Blade _could_   kill Cas, if maybe it’s more powerful than an angel blade. He remembers the way the curse surges through him, down his arm through his fingers, the way it curls his fingers around the handle and guides his hand. The way it feels _good_ , too, the way every single goddamn weapon he’s picked up since has been a perfect fit.  
  
Cas says, “It doesn’t have to be this way.” And the way _Cas’s_ voice breaks, the way his eyes fucking glisten, Dean can’t. “We can fix this.”  
  
“Sorry,” Dean replies like he isn’t. His voice is somewhere deep in his throat. “But it’s already this way and there’s nothing left to fix.”  
  
Cas shakes his head in a distraught way and mouths ‘no’ but then is too lost to continue. And there is something in Cas that is too hurt to quickly recover and Cas has never looked hurt _like this_ before, has never looked vulnerable in a way that Dean realizes he has always wanted him to.  
  
Wants even now, _god fucking_ damn _it_.  
  
“How many times I gotta spell it out? I’m poison.” He imagines Abbadon glittering to life in Cas’s eyes, feels himself sliding the Blade into Cas’s stomach. It doesn't matter if it's a literal prediction of the future or if it's just a symbol, it's too late. He believes it. He hears Crowley say _no one hates you more than you do_ and he thinks _that’s because no one knows me like I do_. “Nothing you or anyone else does can fix that because it’s who I am. It’s part of me.” He shakes his right arm out at Cas.  
  
Cas looks down at it reluctantly. Bitterly. His eyebrows are sharp arcs in the light.  
  
“You need to get away from me. Run, drive, whatever, and don’t look back. And take Sam with you.”  
  
Cas puffs up. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, something angry; but then closes it.  
  
He doesn’t argue. He doesn't look back.  
  
  
  
When Dean returns to the motel room several hours later, it’s empty.  
  
He turns the light off again and sits on the bed, puts his knife back under the pillow and stares at the door for a long time.


End file.
